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Gent

Gent I.

In grim unison, suited men tug standard wheelie-bags past my post. A herd (you couldn’t call that a pack); they’re silent and swift, grazing between international airport pastures, not an alpha male amongst them. Perpetually perplexed by exotic exchange rates, they glide expertly to overpriced faux-Asian restaurants for sustenance before the next migration.

Gent II.

She flits from room to room, the period art pieces buzzing with life like electrons around each nucleic, cushioned bench. She just stares and stares through the oil and pastel portals, back to French rivieras and Spanish villages and unsuspecting muses. Other patrons eye her queerly as she locks in the beauty behind clenched eyes.

Gent III.

There isn’t anything more beautiful than the girl that sits opposite you in the train, against the window, looking out through the sunlight and past the scenery, while her glimmering reflection looks back at her. She’s motionless; her mind is still, as she considers unsaid, unreproducible matters outside. Her buzzing phone cannot break her reverie.

Gent IV.

His gentle grin pushes concentric rings of wrinkles into his cheeks, and splays tiny lines from the corners of his eyes. He is obviously a little older than the boys she normally allows to buy her dinner, but there’s something to this one. The word ‘dapper’ occupies her mind. She might be smitten. Probably not.

the smiles that win, the tints that glow 
but tell of days in goodness spent 
a mind at peace with all below 
a heart whose love is innocent

He sees her across the crowded gallery: separate and aloof, yet at ease with her peers and their art.
Her hands are slung behind a tight red dress, her presence radiates throughout the hushed chamber.
Her head is reclined; her gaze honours some dull mural.
He sees only those eyes, those that flitter with felicity.

He sees her across the crowded gallery: separate and aloof, yet at ease with her peers and their art.

Her hands are slung behind a tight red dress, her presence radiates throughout the hushed chamber.

Her head is reclined; her gaze honours some dull mural.

He sees only those eyes, those that flitter with felicity.

dark whispers hushed on the night bus from washington 
phone held tight to ear, not going to be proved wrong again 
shadows of silence peer out from behind the empty chairs 
at the time on a friday night where nobody no longer cares 
crinkled wardrobes, heavy eyelids, sympathetic stares 
hidden beneath the still life escape lonely sighs of despair 
the sound of the streets suit the mood way too well 
minds focused forward on three star hotels

lost amongst a sea of faces
refuge among the masses and the empty spaces
write the words that take you back to your childhood places
dance around on the stage that she nightly graces 

Beats made of rupture
Rhymes made of rapture
Far from illiterate

Gent

Gent I.

In grim unison, suited men tug standard wheelie-bags past my post. A herd (you couldn’t call that a pack); they’re silent and swift, grazing between international airport pastures, not an alpha male amongst them. Perpetually perplexed by exotic exchange rates, they glide expertly to overpriced faux-Asian restaurants for sustenance before the next migration.

Gent II.

She flits from room to room, the period art pieces buzzing with life like electrons around each nucleic, cushioned bench. She just stares and stares through the oil and pastel portals, back to French rivieras and Spanish villages and unsuspecting muses. Other patrons eye her queerly as she locks in the beauty behind clenched eyes.

Gent III.

There isn’t anything more beautiful than the girl that sits opposite you in the train, against the window, looking out through the sunlight and past the scenery, while her glimmering reflection looks back at her. She’s motionless; her mind is still, as she considers unsaid, unreproducible matters outside. Her buzzing phone cannot break her reverie.

Gent IV.

His gentle grin pushes concentric rings of wrinkles into his cheeks, and splays tiny lines from the corners of his eyes. He is obviously a little older than the boys she normally allows to buy her dinner, but there’s something to this one. The word ‘dapper’ occupies her mind. She might be smitten. Probably not.

Descend

Descend

the smiles that win, the tints that glow 
but tell of days in goodness spent 
a mind at peace with all below 
a heart whose love is innocent

He sees her across the crowded gallery: separate and aloof, yet at ease with her peers and their art.
Her hands are slung behind a tight red dress, her presence radiates throughout the hushed chamber.
Her head is reclined; her gaze honours some dull mural.
He sees only those eyes, those that flitter with felicity.

He sees her across the crowded gallery: separate and aloof, yet at ease with her peers and their art.

Her hands are slung behind a tight red dress, her presence radiates throughout the hushed chamber.

Her head is reclined; her gaze honours some dull mural.

He sees only those eyes, those that flitter with felicity.

dark whispers hushed on the night bus from washington 
phone held tight to ear, not going to be proved wrong again 
shadows of silence peer out from behind the empty chairs 
at the time on a friday night where nobody no longer cares 
crinkled wardrobes, heavy eyelids, sympathetic stares 
hidden beneath the still life escape lonely sighs of despair 
the sound of the streets suit the mood way too well 
minds focused forward on three star hotels

lost amongst a sea of faces
refuge among the masses and the empty spaces
write the words that take you back to your childhood places
dance around on the stage that she nightly graces 

Beats made of rupture
Rhymes made of rapture
Far from illiterate

Colabyrinth

colabyrinth

Not an imitator

Just a crowd motivator

But it’s time to get wreck with the creator

About:

Not an imitator

Just a crowd motivator

But it’s time to get wreck with the creator

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